The Boy with a Porcelain Broom
by SeeJaye
Summary: Harry Potter was tired. The war was over and, honestly, he just wanted to sleep. Everybody else seemed to have a different idea, though. They had some questions and wanted immediate answers. Did they really have to ask him how he felt, though? Oneshot. Rated for cynicism. Takes place after DH and before Epilogue.


Disclaimer: I own nothing involving Harry Potter. I'm not making money off of this fanfiction.

**The Boy with a Porcelain Broom**

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!" journalists screamed at him, their camera's flashing in his face, the faint clicking of pictures being taken echoing in his footsteps as he walked quickly out of the reclaimed Ministry of Magic building.

He remembered the fighting that had taken place here. He remembered that this place, no matter who was occupying it, housed the corrupt and the power hungry. He remembered the dead that had fallen here. And they thought that if they called it _reclaimed_ and cleaned it up a bit, everything would just be swept under the rug, like none of it had ever happened, but he remembered.

"Mr. Potter!" Harry sighed, trying to keep a grimace off his face, but he knew that he was probably failing. Years of trying to learn occlumancy, and he still couldn't control his emotions.

"_Please_, Mr. Potter!" Harry stopped and closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath and clenching his fists before turning to face the onslaught of rabid wizards and witches.

Couldn't they see that he didn't want to answer any questions? That he didn't owe them anything else? That he didn't want to be begged for anything else? He was tired, _so tired_, and he wanted to go home. Didn't he deserve some peace? Couldn't they see that they all just needed some _peace_?

There were at least fifty of them, maybe more; some of them had notepads in their hands, quills hovering, waiting to take down whatever he said. Others were holding cameras up to their faces, lenses pointed toward him, flashes blinding now that we was actually face to face with the crowd. Others, still, seemed to be ordinary people, no notebooks or quills or cameras; just questions.

Lately, everyone had questions. Everyone wanted answers. Funny how war couldn't kill curiosity. He would have thought that everyone would just continue hiding under rocks, questioning no one now that the war was finished, like they all had during the war, but no, they crawled out from under their rocks when the dust had settled and suddenly they all thought that they _deserved_ to ask questions and receive answers, because it was _their_ homes and _their_ lives that had been affected. How quaint.

Harry looked at them all, taking in their tired eyes and worn faces, "One question," he finally spoke, his voice soft but raising above the noise they were creating, helped along by a silent wandless sornus charm, "I'll answer just one question."

It was their eyes. Everyone had this _glint_ in their eyes, like they had seen hell and were now trying to forget it, to move on. He wondered when they would realize, like he had, that they would never forget and that, even if it was just a small part of them, they would never move on.

Immediately a maelstrom of questions was thrown his way. People were shouting over each other, their voices straining to be heard. Harry didn't catch any of what they were saying, though; all he could hear was a wave of voices, rising and falling together.

He wondered why they couldn't act this way when danger was in their paths. To unite, even with different opinions and things that they wanted, but ultimately after the same thing. He wondered why it was only in peace times they could do this, be this together with everything.

Finally, after a minute or two of just letting them yell, he stopped them with a wave of his hand, sending his magic out over them. They immediately quieted, shivering as his magic wrapped around them, whispering past them and circling back to him.

His magic had turned into a bit of a braggart, really. It liked to hover around him, brushing over the people he passed, reminding them of its immense strength, of what it had accomplished. His friends and had asked him to "Please stop", but he liked how his magic acted. Liked that there was still some part of him that was seemingly confident and positive about what had happened.

Harry looked over the people, trying to pick out someone who wouldn't ask something he wouldn't or couldn't answer because there were things he wouldn't even talk to his friends about. Things like his supposed death, or the magical hallows that he had found and united under one master. But most especially, he didn't talk about what he planned on doing next, because in all honesty, he didn't know.

Harry sighed and just pointed to some bloke in the front of the pack. "You," he said, "what's your question?"

The man he had pointed out fumbled a bit. He was clearly just a random citizen that had spotted him as he left the reclaimed Ministry of Magic. He had no notebook or quill or camera, and he was wearing a torn blue muggle jacket that he was fidgeting with.

People lined up daily outside of the reclaimed Ministry of Magic, mostly muggleborns, to request a permit for a new wand. He had thought, at first, that the death eaters and snatchers and actually found more muggleborns than he had originally thought, but he had later found out that the majority of those lined up had actually snapped their own wands. They had hoped that if they took away their means of performing magic, then Voldemort's people wouldn't be able to find them. He thought they were all stupid, bloody cowards.

The man was giving panicked looks to the people around him, and Harry vaguely wondered if he had just come along with the ride and didn't have any questions, or if, in the face of the spotlight, he had forgotten them.

(He, himself, had a tendency to forget things when the spotlight was on him. Like the mirror Sirius had given him. He really wished that he had remembered that.)

"I, well-" the man stuttered, and Harry had a hard time not snorting in amusement.

He found that he was, often times, a lot meaner now. His friends had called it his Slytherin side, but he just called it his jaded side. Wasn't he allowed to have a jaded side? He kinda thought that he had earned it.

The man gave another panicked look before blurting out his question, "How do you feel now that the war is over?" spewed out of his mouth, his cheeks flushed pink and his hands wringing around themselves.

How did he feel? He felt like he wanted to sleep. For a very long time.

The man continued, qualifying his question, "was it a relief? Or is it hard, now that all of the fighting is held in the courts?" Most of the people in the crowd looked annoyed at the question, though some had considering looks on their faces.

Relief? Was that what they expected him to feel? Harry had never really thought about it. He wasn't really the type to sit and think about his _feelings_, not when there were more important things to think about, but he had said he would answer one question, and this one seemed safe enough, so he closed his eyes, blocking out the crowd, and considered it.

How did he feel?

His emotions swirled inside of him, and it was times like these when he wondered how people could look into someone's eyes and miraculously know what they were feeling, because he was the one that could actually _feel_ what he was feeling, and he couldn't pick out any one and just name it.

Slowly, though, as he thought about it, and with a vague recognition that the crowd in front of him was getting impatient, Harry thought that he could voice some of what he was feeling.

"I feel," he started slowly, considering each word before it passed over his tongue, "like a child." The Chosen One opened his eyes and swept them over the people. They, surprisingly, stayed quiet, waiting for him to finish.

"A small child," he continued, continuing to assess the crowed in front of him, "and this child, while poor and knowing that his family can't afford it, has always wanted a broom for Christmas. He doesn't care what kind of broom it is or if it's cheap and used with bent twigs and a scratched handle, he'd settle for anything. He just wants a broom." Harry stopped, trying to find more words. He wanted to get this right.

"So," Harry clenched his fists, "so the child goes to his parents and begs and begs for a broom. And when his parents only respond with a 'Maybe' he goes to all of his relatives and friends and asks them for a broom, too.

"The child, however, didn't get a broom under the Christmas tree that year. Or the year after, or the one after that, but he kept asking for one. This child, he's determined to get this broom. He feels as if he'd die without it.

"Finally, one year, his parents get sick of the child asking and, saving up their money, they buy a broom for their child, placing it under the Christmas tree.

"Christmas morning comes and the child slowly walked to the tree, hoping that his broom would be under it, but, after so many years, his hope was diminishing.

"The child opened his presents until he only has one left. It's a curiously shaped package and, as the child examines it, he becomes more and more excited, because this wrapped package looked like a mini broom that had been shrunken down with magic. The child rips open the package, and, lo and behold, there is a small broom in his hands.

"The child looked down at the broom, and just for a second, a flash of a second, he was the happiest kid on earth, for he had gotten his broom." Harry stopped and slowly unclenched his fists, relaxing. Everyone was staring at him, quills frantically scribbling across pages, and every once in a while, a camera would click and a light would flash in accompaniment.

"But just for a second," he confided, voice turning solemn. "In the child's hands was a small, porcelain broom. It was beautiful in its simplicity, the wood gleaming and painted many different shades of brown with delicate little bristles on the end… but it wasn't a real broom.

"All of his life, this child has wanted a broom, not to brag about it to the other children, or to keep in the shed, waiting for the occasional Quidditch game. No, this child wanted a broom so that he could fly." Harry swallowed, showing his hands in his robe's pockets.

"He just wants to fly. The child tries to tell his parents to take the porcelain broom back, to get him a real one, but they're angry and they don't understand. They had gotten him a broom, just like he had asked, hadn't they?

"The child then takes the broom to the rest of his family and his friends, because maybe they would understand, but they don't. They all tell him that it's what he wanted, and that he should be happy with it, but the child isn't. He _can't_ be. Because who can fly with a small, porcelain broom?"

Harry finally stopped, and it kinda felt like he had just beat Voldemort again. He had sweat on his brow, his hands were shaking in his pockets, and he was breathing fast.

"That's what I feel like," he told them before swiftly turning and apparating away. He was done.

The crowd left behind stared, blinking at where their Savior had stood. Some, some understood and couldn't wait to publish what The-Boy-Who-Lived had said, or to tell their friends, while others scoffed, calling the young man an "arrogant sod who just blows everybody off, telling bloody stories to entertain himself."

As the large group separated, people going their separate ways, the man who had asked the question stayed where he was, fingers playing with his frayed jacket and shoes idly scuffing the ground, "Poor sod," he murmured.

* * *

Review, please! I'd love to know what you all thought of this little one-shot! Also, I have no beta reader, so if you see any mistakes, go ahead and let me know.

-Jaklyn


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